No, Bluefly, no. My closet—nor any other part of my home—is begging for Jeggings.
In addition to being the dumbest word since “investigoogle”, Jeggings look like the result of a drunken hookup between my running tights and the beat up pair of Levis that lives in the back of my closet.
They’re like the clothing equivalent of Molly Ringwald giving one earring to Judd Nelson as they stumble out of Saturday detention.
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